


Fireside Chat

by like_a_raven, mountain_born



Series: The Marvelous Tale of an Agent, an Archer, and an Assassin [39]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Doctor Who/Avengers Crossover Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:13:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9361031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/like_a_raven/pseuds/like_a_raven, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountain_born/pseuds/mountain_born
Summary: Steve Rogers and an old friend talk about the devils you know and the teammates you don't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to mountain_born for occasionally letting me take over her sandbox. This follows "This Is Where It Gets Complicated" almost immediately.

SHIELD Headquarters, New York  
June 15, 2012

“Join me for dinner,” Meg Downing said, and Steve wondered if she was even aware that she had given him an order and not an invitation. 

Still, he accepted -- or obeyed -- without giving it much thought beyond that. For one, he figured if there was anyone who could waltz him past the gauntlet of SHIELD types waiting to re-debrief him about their Moon landing, it was Director Downing. For another, he was hungry. A stale bear claw and some lukewarm coffee in the hospital cafe were the closest he’d come to lunch, and it had been a long time since breakfast.

Besides, he liked Meg. He liked talking to someone who got all his references -- he’d mentioned the Marx Brothers the other day, and Agent Miller had stared blankly then mumbled something about Communism falling in the 1980s. Beyond that, he liked talking to someone who remembered the people he still felt like he had only just lost, and remembered them as people, not as legends or the subjects of books and museum displays. The Howling Commandos had been great men who had done great things, yes, but Steve remembered that Jacques had had a terrible singing voice, and Monty’s jokes were consistently awful. People didn’t tend to ask about that sort of thing.

So he just said “sure” and followed Meg across the tarmac, away from the Quinjet, trying not to smile too obviously as Stark got waylaid by Agent Miller. Miller’s assistant, Agent Scholl, looked like she was coming over to Steve, but one dismissive hand wave from Meg stopped her in her tracks.

There was a car parked in front of the hanger, and Steve opened the door for Meg, only to find that she was standing twenty feet away, regarding him with amusement. “Our ride is over there,” she said, indicating a helicopter. “Traffic will be a nightmare in Midtown, and when you’re as old as I am, you don’t want to waste the time you’ve got left sitting at red lights.”

“I am as old as you are,” Steve said, closing the car door and heading for the helicopter.

It was too loud for proper conversation on the helicopter, though Steve exchanged a handful of comments with the pilot and the agents who must constitute Meg’s security detail. Meg didn’t talk to anyone, barely looking up from her phone during the trip, typing away at the screen with a speed that gave Steve hope. Stark gave him a good bit of grief about how slowly he typed, but Meg must have mastered that particular technology later in life, and if she could, so could he.

Steve was a bit surprised when the helicopter landed gently on the roof of a building, though he wasn’t sure why he was surprised. Mere mortals, and even Stark, might have lost permission to land helicopters on buildings in Midtown, but he wanted to meet the bureaucrat who tried to tell Meg Downing and SHIELD that they’d have to land at one of the city’s heliports.

He watched as Meg stepped down from the helicopter, leaning on her cane and the arm of one of the agents. Not for the first time, Steve wondered just how much she really needed that cane, how much of it was age and how much of it was simply the latest invitation to underestimate her. He’d guess a combination of both. He remembered when she’d used a coil of blonde hair and fashionable dresses to keep people focused on her legs and the speculation about her and Howard, while making them not terribly careful about what they said in front of her. Howard had described her as his _one-woman news service_. 

Meg could have posed for those “Keep mum, she’s not so dumb” posters back in those days. Now she had a cane. And even knowing all that, Steve suspected he was still underestimating her.

And all of that reminded him that he he’d probably fallen into the trap of not looking closely enough at people earlier today. He could try to blame the situation or the newness of the team or the distraction of _being on the Moon_ , but Steve if he was being honest, he knew he’d dismissed Barton out of hand without thinking about it. He’d have pitied anyone who looked at Bucky in 1944 and only seen the rifle, but today he’d looked at Barton and only seen the bow. He was going to need to remedy that.

“Are you coming, Captain?” Meg yelled, and Steve stopped woolgathering and hopped out of the helicopter. Seconds later, it took off into the sky above Manhattan, and seemed to head straight for the Moon for just a moment.

Meg punched a button next to what looked like an elevator door, and a security panel opened in the wall. Steve waited while Meg scanned her eye and her thumb print and said, “Authorization: Downing Juliet Bravo Delta.”

“Welcome, Director Downing,” a voice said, and the doors slid open. The agents who had accompanied them did not follow them onto the elevator. Either they had reached their destination, or Steve had just been promoted to protection detail.

“JBD,” Steve said, as the doors slid closed. “Your brother’s initials?” 

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that the sort of thing we’re discouraged from using as passwords?” Steve asked. 

“I’d tell anyone else to change it, but since you’d have to match my voice exactly and have my right thumb and my left eyeball as well to make it work, I allow myself the indulgence. Besides, for the reason you’ve just pointed out, it’s not what anyone would guess.”

The elevator doors opened on a large living room, and the decor reminded Steve of Meg’s apartment in Toronto, aside from a massive TV on the far wall.

“You keep a place in the city, too?”

“When I retired, we discovered it was much easier to move the new director into the old apartment than move all the security and communications and so on. It’s Nicholas’s apartment now. I just stay in the guest room when I’m in New York. It’s very secure, so it keeps my agents happy.” She looked around. “I keep telling him he should redecorate. It still looks like an old lady lives here.”

Steve wouldn’t have guessed that an old lady lived there. He wouldn’t have guessed that _anyone_ lived there. He’d seen foxholes that showed more of the personality of their occupants. There were no photos, no books, no knick-knacks. Nothing on the coffee table but a set of beige coasters and the TV remote. He wondered if Fury kept his personal effects elsewhere, or if he were truly unsentimental enough to not have any.

Which reminded him . . . “I’ve been meaning to thank you. For the pictures,” he clarified, off her questioning look. 

She’d sent him home from their last meeting in Toronto with a couple dozen old snapshots from London -- Bucky, Peggy, Howard, the Commandos. Half of them were already framed and on display in his apartment.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Next time you visit, you’ll have to look through the rest and see if there are others you want copies of.”

“I’d like that.”

There was a pause, and then Meg said briskly, “Well, let’s see what Nicholas has on hand, shall we?” She headed into the kitchen.

Steve stared. Was she going to cook? 

Was he supposed to help?

Was she going to improvise with whatever she found, or did Fury keep this place stocked in case his old boss turned up and wanted to make an omelet?

“These should do nicely,” Meg said, reappearing with two bottles of beer. “And the pizza should be here soon.”

She settled into one of the chairs in in front of the fireplace. Steve took the one opposite her.

“Fury doesn’t mind if we drink his beer?”

Meg shrugged. “I’ll replace it. But be sure to use a coaster.”

“Out of curiosity, when did you manage to order pizza?”

“Would you believe I used the Domino’s app?”

“Would I believe that the former director of one of the world’s foremost covert organizations blithely punched her address into a pizza chain’s app? No.”

“Smart man. Besides, ordering a pizza from Domino’s in New York City would be a crime. I sent a message to the security desk downstairs and asked them to call an order into Manfredi’s.”

Steve paused. “Manfredi’s. Why do I know that name?”

“It’s one of the restaurants on the first floor of this building. Their pizza makes a lot of ‘best of New York’ lists.”

Steve shook his head. “That’s not it.”

“The original owner was a friend of Howard’s. We offered him a very good lease on the space when we bought the building. It’s good to have tenants, and food, you can trust. His granddaughter runs the place now.”

“Manfredi. Wait, Silvio Manfredi? The mob boss?”

“His son. Joseph.”

“But same family business?” Steve asked.

“Yes.”

“And SHIELD was okay with that?” 

“Joseph was an excellent source of information we wouldn’t have easily had otherwise. And, yes, he was a criminal and a killer, but he was a patriot in his own way, and he took personal loyalty very seriously. He was also a terrible flirt. Howard always said he had a thing for smart blondes.”

“But a criminal,” Steve said, returning to what he clearly believed was a more salient point than Meg did.

“A member of a world we needed access and insight into,” Meg said. “You cut some deals with some devils in this business, Steve. Joseph Manfredi was a devil we knew.”

“This is a lot to get used to,” Steve said. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“I know. But all you’re getting tonight is pizza. And Luisa, the current owner, has a criminal history that’s limited to parking tickets, though she does rack those up at an alarming rate.”

“Does SHIELD take care of those for her?” Steve asked.

“Not all of them,” Meg said. 

There was a buzz from the door before Steve could respond. “That should be dinner. Would you mind?”

Steve stared for a moment at the high-tech security panel by the door. A small screen showed a man holding a couple of flat cardboard boxes, but he was wearing a suit and tie, which was not exactly what Steve expected in a pizza-delivery guy. He finally managed to find the button labeled _intercom_ , then stopped.

There was probably some kind of protocol here, wasn’t there? A password or something. But he’d feel ridiculous asking Meg how he was supposed to answer a door, so after another moment’s hesitation, he just pushed the button and asked, “Who’s there?”

“Agent Grant Ward with a delivery for Minister.”

Steve looked over at Meg, who nodded, and then he opened the door. 

Agent Grant Ward reminded Steve of Barton and Song. There was nothing overtly hostile in the way he stood on Meg’s doorstep, but even holding pizza boxes, he managed to convey that that could change at any moment. His free hand cheated just slightly toward the holster Steve didn’t need to see to know was there. Ward’s eyes darted from Steve’s face to the apartment behind him and then back, and Steve saw the tiny relaxation that meant he’d just been deemed not-a-threat. 

And then Ward looked down at Steve’s chest and smiled, and Steve was suddenly very conscious of the fact that he had just answered the door in all his _wear the suit, the kids’ll love it_ stars-and-stripes-spangled glory.

“Grant,” Meg called from her chair. “This is unexpected. Do come in.”

Steve stepped aside to let the other man into the apartment. Ward set the pizzas on a table and turned to Meg. “Good evening, ma’am.”

“Steve, this is Agent Grant Ward. Grant, this is Captain Steve Rogers.”

Steve shook Ward’s hand, silently thanking Meg for leaving the word _America_ out of the introductions. “It’s nice to meet you, Agent Ward.”

“It’s an honor, Captain.” Ward looked back over to Meg. “A red letter day, meeting Captain Rogers and surprising Director Downing all at once.”

“Don’t get smug, Grant,” Meg said, but she looked and sounded amused. “I hadn’t heard you’d been stationed in New York.”

“I haven’t. Last minute details for my next assignment took more minutes than expected. I’m flying out early tomorrow morning, so Rumlow offered to let me crash here tonight. We’re going to grab dinner and catch up when his shift ends. They were a little busy down in the security office, and I was just waiting, so I offered to play errand boy.”

“Well, thank you. Where are you headed this time?”

“Toledo.”

“Ohio or Spain?” Meg asked.

“The Philippines.”

“Really? What on Earth is SHIELD up to there?”

Ward looked a little pointedly at Steve, who realized his Need to Know had just been questioned. Meg dismissed her own question with a wave of her hand. “I’ll ask Nicholas later.” She smiled at Ward. “We won’t keep you, Grant, and we should get to our own dinner before the cheese congeals. Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And again,” he said, turning to Steve, “an honor to meet you.”

“Good to meet you, too,” Steve said. 

“We’ll be informal, I think,” Meg said, after the door closed behind Ward. Following her directions, Steve found plates and napkins in the kitchen, swiped another beer for himself, and brought them and the pizzas over to the table between their chairs. He opened both pizza boxes to find one plain cheese and one loaded with meats and vegetables. He didn’t bother to ask Meg which one she wanted; sausage and pepperoni were not exactly kosher.

“So do you know every SHIELD agent?” Steve asked, as he settled back into his chair. 

“Not every agent, no,” Meg said. “Every agent who operates at Grant Ward’s clearance level, on the other hand, even if I haven’t met them, I tend to know who they are.”

“What kind of a clearance level does a guy need to bring you dinner?” Steve asked.

“Oh, he’s overqualified for that sort of thing, but Grant’s ambitious and he’s bright. Face time with me is not an easy thing to get, and a lot of agents will take any opportunity to remind the old lady they exist. Grant’s an interesting case. Rough road to SHIELD, what gets glossed over as a ‘colorful history,’ but he’s taken to it very well.”

“SHIELD seems to have a lot of agents with a, ah, colorful history.”

“You’ve met some of the most colorful, certainly.”

“Yeah, I guess I have,” Steve said, and reached for another slice of pizza. He finished three more slices in silence before setting his plate down. “Can I ask you something?” 

“I remember that look,” Meg said, setting her own plate down.

“What look?”

“The one you have right now. Bucky used to call it your _enough small talk_ look.” Meg settled back in her chair. “You may ask me anything, Steve . . .”

“You just might not answer,” he finished for her.

“There’s always the chance.” 

“Is there something I should know about Song?” he asked.

Meg studied him for a moment. “There are probably a great many things you should know about the members of a team you’re leading. Is there something in particular you’re asking me about?”

“When we were on the Moon,” Steve said, and then took several seconds to process the words he’d just said. “When we were on the Moon,” he repeated, “well, you heard about it, on the way back to New York. She convinced those aliens she was the Doctor. Convinced the _scanners_. I know she’s a good actress, but you don’t fool technology like that. And her explanation -- ‘I’m very good at my job’ -- it’s not actually an explanation. And I saw that smile you gave her on the plane. So I think you know more about what happened up there than I do.”

“I wasn’t there. I don’t know exactly what happened on the Moon.”

“See, that’s like ‘I’m good at my job.’ Sounds like an answer without actually being one.”

“Let me ask you something,” Meg said, and Steve noticed that it was once again phrased as a command rather than a request. “Do you trust Agent Song?”

“I want to, but no,” Steve said. “I don’t like being kept in the dark. And you said it yourself before -- if I’m going to lead this team, I need to know about its members. That’s how it worked in the war: I knew what everyone could do, and I knew what everyone couldn’t do, and I could plan accordingly.”

And Barton’s snide comments about strategy aside, Steve knew that he’d been good at it, that he still was good at it, at least when he had all the relevant information. You didn’t have the kind of string of successes the Howling Commandos had had without a leader who could plan.

“Steve, you’re comparing, well, not apples to oranges but certainly apple blossoms to ripe fruit,” Meg said. “Yes, by the end of the war, the Howling Commandos were an incredibly efficient team made up of people who all knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses and likes and dislikes. But that took time. Except maybe for Bucky, you didn’t have that in the beginning, and you didn’t get it by demanding that everyone tell you anything you might need to know. You earned it, in the field.”

“It was different. I never watched Dum Dum convince a bunch of aliens that he wasn’t human.”

Meg shrugged. “I convinced scores of people that I was French during the war, including Julien. He was one of my best friends, and he didn’t even know my real name until more than five years after we met.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “France isn’t actually another planet, Meg.”

“My point was that he trusted me, even though I kept things from him when we met. And I trusted him, though not at first.” She picked up her drink and turned it in her hands. “Do you trust me?”

“Same answer as before, Meg. I would love to trust you, but . . . well, it’s like Stark said about Fury. Your secrets have secrets.”

“Don’t confuse trust and transparency. If you have the latter, you hardly need the former. Yes, Steve, I have a lot of secrets. But please believe that I have enough respect and care for your life and Anthony’s and the rest of your team that I am not keeping any secrets I think would get you all killed.”

“And what if we get other people hurt or killed along the way?”

“That will happen no matter how well you know each other. There’s no such thing as a war without causalities. And you don’t need me to tell you that, any more than you need me to tell you to give everyone time, Steve. You’ve all got a lot to learn about each other still.” 

“I’m not sure how much time this fight is going to give us, Meg.”

“Maybe it won’t take as long as you think. And for now, talk to your team. And listen to them.”

“Yeah.” Steve sighed, picked up his plate, and reached for another slice of pizza. “This really is good,” he said.

“It’s the sauce,” Meg said. “Even I never managed to get the recipe out of Joe.”

“Something you don’t know?” Steve asked.

“It happens. Occasionally.”

“How hard did you try?”

“Not as hard as I could have. It’s just pizza sauce. Wasn’t worth the effort. Some things are.”

“You’ve made your point, Meg. I’ll talk to them. I’m going to finish this pizza first, though.”

“Maybe change clothes, too,” she suggested.

“Definitely.”


End file.
